Best of Best Lesbian Erotica 2

by Tristan Taormino

  Peggy Munson

  Stone

  We are leaning against the rock wall by the high school where I have taken him because it’s deserted. He has that board-splitting butch gaze. He’s worn his letter jacket, the one he earned back in high school, and today he delicately wraps it around my shoulders and says, “Do you want to be my girl? Do you want me to be your Daddy boyfriend?” And I nod shyly and say, “Yeah, okay.” He holds my hand and we walk. This is how it begins. It begins with something made from stone.

  The bed he has me in is firm. Daddy’s callused hands are hard. Daddy’s face looks like it was chiseled off Mount Rushmore. The wind is parting the curtains the way he brushes my hair back from my eyes. He gets serious. “Do you want to play a game, little girl?” he asks me. I know Daddy’s games: rock beats scissors, scissors beat paper, paper beats rock. Hands equal power. Sometimes I am a paper doll and my clothes fold on with paper tabs, and Daddy undresses me absently, like he’s opening mail. Sometimes I am a stone tablet, the stone on which commandments are carved. Sometimes, my legs are safety scissors, lying like dull blades, waiting to be crushed by rock. And Daddy spreads them open and they pull reflexively shut. He kisses to relax me. He curls his hand into a fist, into a stone. He slides that power into me. This simple game of hands.

  But this is not just a game, Daddy-Girl. This is not just a game, Paper-Scissors-Rock. These are the scissors that cut up paper guises. This is the crane that breaks buildings. This is the fist that destroys orderly origami. This is the red paper of my cunt unfolding. This is me coming. This is how real. “Take it, bitch,” says Daddy’s voice into my ear. “Be a good girl. Take my fist.” This is me pressed against surfaces. This is the stone that does not acquiesce. This is the statue becoming a Girl.

  Quarry

  Some days, I hate everything about Daddy. I hate how orphaned I feel when Daddy goes to work. I hate how Daddy can choose the simplest onomatopoeia and roll it off the tongue, so that cock sounds as hard as it is. How I sit all day with that word jammed in my head, cock, Daddy’s cock, Daddy’s hard cock, spreading out with acres of modifiers, until it becomes Daddy’s hard cock that isn’t fucking me. I hate it that I am so Electra. I hate it that Freud is on my shoulder and that he told me so. I hate it that I need a Daddy. I hate it that words never add up to cocks.

  I lie on my back all day waiting and watching TV. I like watching teenage rock stars almost as much as anorexic figure skaters. I used to read about anorexia and about gymnasts and I would think about their discipline when the dentist was drilling pain into my smile. And I would read about how the girls didn’t want to grow up and I would walk around for days with the pain in my smile and it was such good pain. And with my fading numb lip I thought of how benevolent the dentist was when he told me I was brave, and such a good girl. I hate Daddy for not being a dentist. I watch the Britney Spears video where she sings “Hit me baby, one more time” and dances around in a Catholic-schoolgirl outfit. I want to pull up my pleated skirt and show Daddy that we can end biblical racism right here, because the devil is made of white cotton. That’s what little girls are made of. This exquisite, pretty rage.

  I go to therapy and I want to talk about Daddy but I don’t even want to get into it with my shrink. I can’t explain how my girlfriend is a boyfriend who makes me call him Daddy. Sometimes when my shrink listens to me talk he thinks about other things. I can see the Viewmaster clicking in front of his eyes. Sometimes he thinks about what I would look like naked, and how he finds the professional boundary titillating. I sit in the waiting room and think about Daddy’s cock and my pussy is all wet and I decide to go wipe myself before going into therapy but the bathroom lock has been ripped off the wall. My shrink might walk in on me, or smell me. He might see what a bad girl I really am. I return to the waiting room, still wet.

  I don’t talk about Daddy’s cock but every word I say in therapy sounds like cock and I know my shrink can see right through me. I know he has linguistic X-ray vision and that he knows I am really saying cock, cock, cock and he wants me to sit on his lap but I am thinking about Daddy. How I want the day to go faster so that Daddy will get home from work. My shrink tells me to have a good week but he is really saying cock. The double doors shut behind me, cock, cock. And far away somewhere, in San Francisco, lesbians are pouring silicone into dildo molds and not thinking cock at all. Happily distracted, they are chattering and squeezing cock after cock out of molds and thinking business. I hate Daddy for thinking business. I wish he would think about my pleasure.

  I hate how without Daddy I am a book with one bookend, so I just fall and my words get crushed. I hate it how Daddy is a petty thief. Because if he steals what’s petty, then what am I when he takes me? I hate how Daddy makes me sputter inarticulate phrases, so that I choke out sounds that have nothing to do with theory. I hate how Daddy makes me write him stories, because I cannot sculpt a sentence out of cock. I hate it how that word becomes so eloquent inside of me, pushing through me and out of my mouth.

  I hate how Daddy’s cock knows the way to hidden quarries, the watery places that were mined. How Daddy sees the drunken dives that kill sixteen, euphoric girls kissed to epiphanies on their mossy knees. Sophomoric girls getting their nipples touched on their mossy knees. And the skin scraped against sharp things, and the rustle of cops approaching, and the second before the kids run, and the hastily abandoned trunks. How he knows what to do about each truncated fuck. Of each lifetime. Daddy takes care of things.

  I hate it how Daddy makes me need his cock. Because then I am a place that once held diamonds, sitting home yearning for him, waiting for a girl’s new best friend. Because then I am always too ready for him. So hungry every time his key turns in the lock. So hungry for that handcuff sound of his key in the lock. So hungry for that four o’clock, drowsy, sharp sound. I hate it how Daddy walks in and feels me to see if I’m wet, and wonders what I anticipate, and then ignores me while removing his jacket. I hate it how those fingers on my pussy make me whimper like a little dog.

  I hate how seconds turn to hours before Daddy leads me into the bedroom, and his belt buckle glints like it’s submerged. How sweetly Daddy takes my hand and says, “Baby girl,” and then pulls me to his denim lap. And how the things to be filled must be emptied, must be stripped. Daddy grips me and undoes me and lowers me to the bed. And I shiver because I need it. I give when Daddy pushes. Daddy pulls on my hair.

  I hate how good and raw he strips me. How good it feels to be this bare.

  The Rock Wall

  Every night I go back to the rock wall. It is covered in moss and the rain is drizzling and I search for grips. I am ripped and mud-covered and hungry. My grasp is tenuous and my fingers are slipping. I’m tired of being a wide-eyed waif always scrambling over walls where there are more walls and more slippery rocks and more places to bruise and nowhere good to land. The rain is so irritating, the noise, the noise that’s always a soft fuck when you need it hard, that’s always a drizzle when you need a thunderstorm to break the air and shock the animals so they run frenzied— wild—crazed—scattershot—into spaces they never dared to go. The wall is unforgiving and I begin to slide. I land on my knees in a muddy pool and my dress is ripped and I’m old and there is no Daddy. The landing is soft. Nothing impaling me. Nothing tearing me and ripping me. No fairytale wolves, though I always thought they would be there, their dripping incisors and hunger, waiting for me to fall. There is nothing to wound me, no imaginary battles to reenact. No hole in the earth to open up and swallow me there.

  Maybe I am already in the hole. Maybe I am the hole. This dark and damp place that feels like the inside and not the outside and my dress is ripped and I start crying. I hold my face in my muddy hands and my tears clean my hands and my hands smear the mud into my tears. Everything undoes everything. Nothing undoes me. Nothing does me.

  Then suddenly, so dark and quick and I can’t even scream, something reaches from behind and grabs me with its arm under my throat and drags m
e backward, and drags me while whispering things. “Daddy’s here now, little girl. Daddy’s got you.” He’s not comforting and not scary, just unsettling, just the kind of thing that makes me all animal, all animal splitting from the pack the way the wolves want it to be, all animal confused and asking for it. I try to flail around and pull away. I try to break the grip, the wall is waiting. Doesn’t Daddy understand the wall? How I need to climb it always, climb and climb and climb it? Daddy pulls my muddy body so that I’m sitting on his lap and I still can’t see him but I feel his hard cock. “Daddy’s got you,” he says again.

  I want not to want it. I want not to feel how my thighs are smeared with mud and my pussy feels smeared, but it’s not, it’s just mine. There is nothing between my pussy and his cock but a thin layer of fabric. And he is rubbing his cock against my panties and I squirm. I want to squirm away but he rubs me so hard and I start to want to push down onto him. I start to push down as if the fabric will just dissolve. He pushes the tip of his cock against the fabric and the fabric goes into me. And the elastic of my panties follows the fabric and pulls me, pulls my legs, into me. I’m going to fall into me. I have to fight. I try to struggle but Daddy holds me against his moving pushing cock. “Daddy, wait,” I say, but I keep pushing to make the fabric go away, and I want him. “Daddy, stop!” Daddy grabs under my arms and pushes me slowly forward so that my face is down but he pulls my hips back. “Daddy wants you to take his cock,” he says. “All of it. Can you be a good girl and do that?”

  I want to taste the mud. The mud smells oddly like Daddy. Daddy slides my panties down my legs so I’m just there in the night air and my pussy and my ass are high up behind me. “Daddy, no,” I say, but this time weakly. This time it’s all reverse psychology. This time I’m not sure at all.

  “Daddy can just leave you here in the mud if you want, little girl. Is that what you want?” He snarls this.

  “Daddy…no,” I say. “No, please, no.”

  “Beg for what you want.”

  “I want you, Daddy.”

  “Beg me.”

  “I want Daddy. I want Daddy to fill me up.”

  “Daddy’s very hard for you. Is this what you want?” He slides the tip of his cock into me. “Is this what you want?”

  “Yes, Daddy. Please.”

  “Beg me.”

  “I want you inside of me. Please.”

  “What?”

  “I want you, Daddy, please.” I say it with the urgency I use to climb the walls.

  Daddy starts sliding his cock into my pussy and I push back onto him but he holds my hips and makes me wait for him. And the rain gets harder, the drops batter my cheeks, the rain turns everything to mud while Daddy fills me up and my hands slide in front of me for something to hang onto but there is nothing, nothing there, nothing but my hips pushing back and Daddy’s hard cock and my need. And I need to hold something. I need to hold on because I am used to holding and I need the wall and Daddy pushes in so hard and I want to scream, it feels so good. My hands are fumbling forward for any handhold but there is nothing there….

  “Daddy’s got you, baby,” he says soothingly. “Fall back into me.”

  Gravel

  The gravel reminds me of old roads cutting between fields to deserted places, the way it clatters and then hums, keeps me unsteady. Once I cut my chin on the gravel in the Dairy Queen parking lot, holding onto my Dilly Bar all the way to the ground. I remember losing my footing, bleeding on the car upholstery, wondering if kids found reddened chunks of rock where I landed. I think about all of these things now, now that I’m old being young, riding next to Daddy in the truck. The big wheels slide over the gravel. The dark moves from beneath trees to the sides of buildings. We are near a warehouse with broken windows. And the gravel is not the kind you buy in bags at Home Depot, but stained. I get out and stumble like a tipsy slut. I straighten my skirt and start to walk but Daddy is there already, and he grabs my arm. “No,” he says, pointing. “You little whore. Right here.”

  I look down distastefully, then up at Daddy. “Here?” I sneer. I can’t believe he means it. The rock is soaked dark with things dying, bled oil and shoe rubber. I look at him again, his stern expression, then kneel down. The rocks are sharp against my knees. Daddy gives a little push on my back so I fall forward and my palms slide through the rocks. Then, when I’m on all fours, he pulls up my skirt from behind, just flips the material so that it lands on my back and I feel the breeze trying to go into me. I’ve got no panties on.

  “Such a pretty little ass,” he says. “Untainted lily-white ass. Not dirty like the rest of you.” The breeze seems to follow the current of his voice and rubs the goose bumps on my ass. “Are you afraid to have Daddy’s big cock in your pretty ass?”

  “Maybe,” I say. I feel defiant. I feel the way the rocks are cutting me and I don’t move my hands.

  Daddy’s hands fondle my asscheeks, spread them open, press against them so I slide forward more. He’s so much stronger than I am. I let myself fall and feel the rocks against my cheek. I think of how I fell that time, when I was young, and tried to taste my blood. And how I always tried to taste my blood when I got cut. But what I liked to taste was not just mine, but also that which made me bleed. It was the thing that made the cut, the flavor mixed into the blood. It was the combination of the two, the grit that touched the cutter and the flesh. It was the generosity of both, and how my bleeding made the two combine. I think of all of this while Daddy moves his cock against the hole, and pushes hard because it’s tight.

  He pushes hard because it’s tight, and pulls my hips against him. My face gets scraped against the gravel. My lip begins to bleed. I taste the blood and salt and earth and pain and fear and trampling. I taste the blood and all that has been done to it and lick and give it back to me. I give me back to me. And Daddy gives me, too.

  “Who gives you what you need?” he asks. The natural light has fled. A streetlight shines behind his hair. I smell the tires. I smell the dew. I feel the walls that crumble into gravel. I feel the girls who must undo.

  “Daddy,” I say. He looks like a monument. “You do.”

  About the Authors

  TONI AMATO has taught, edited, and coached in writing since 1992, and has had fiction published in several anthologies, including Best Lesbian Erotica (1998–2001). He is coeditor of Pinned Down by Pronouns.

  LISA ARCHER, aka Lisa Montanarelli, is coauthor of First Year: Hepatitis C. Her work has appeared in Best American Erotica 2004 and 2005 as well as Playboy magazine. Visit www.lisamontanarelli.com.

  SAMIYA A. BASHIR is the editor of Best Black Women’s Erotica 2 and coeditor of Role Call: A Generational Anthology of Social and Political Black Literature and Art.

  S. BEAR BERGMAN is a theater artist, writer, instigator, and gender-jammer. Ze lives on the web at www.sbearbergman.com and makes a home in Northampton, Massachusetts, where ze is the lucky husbear of a magnificent femme.

  BETTY BLUE, just another smutty, slutty San Francisco girl, has published fiction in Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Women’s Erotica, Best Lesbian Love Stories, and Best Bisexual Erotica.

  LINDA A. BOULTER has written in several genres, inspired by love lost and love found, love of her children, and love of life and words. On word.

  CARA BRUCE edited Best Fetish Erotica, Best Bisexual Women’s Erotica, Viscera, and Horny? San Francisco. Her stories appear in Best American Erotica, Best Women’s Erotica, The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, and many more.

  RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL (www.rachelkramerbussel.com, lustylady.blogspot.com) has had erotic stories published in more than fifty anthologies, including Best American Erotica 2004 and Best Lesbian Erotica (2001, 2004, and 2005).

  PATR ICK CALIFIA, despite a gender transition, continues to believe that woman-to-woman sex has a unique power to transform the world. His new books include Mortal Companion, a vampire novel, and Hard Men, gay male leather smut.

  L. SHANE CONNER is a boy-identified, rugby-playing, tattooed, s
ometime geek, wannabe writer with a dream and a vision and many women to satisfy.

  SHANNON CUMMINGS is too shy to comment on most things, though she would likely say that the sexiest part of the human body is the synaptic cleft.

  MR DANIEL is a somewhat nomadic writer, independent film and video curator, scholar, and sound artist whose writing has appeared in various publications.

  KENYA DEVOREAUX, a femme lesbian and a devoted writer, is inspired by the beauty of lesbian passion and still searches for that one special lady to give her something to write about.

  MARíA HELENA DOLAN, an Aquarian changeling, lives in the Atlanta area and enjoys a life full of agitating, writing, gardening, loving, traveling, and generally smirking.

  DAWN DOUGHERTY is a belly dancer, writer, and yoga teacher who recently relocated to the Midwest after a decade in Boston. Her work has appeared in numerous queer anthologies.

  AMIE M. EVANS is a well-published literary erotica and creative nonfiction writer, workshop provider, and burlesque and high-femme drag performer. She is working on her MLA at Harvard University.

  SANDRA LEE GOLVIN is a lesbian-centered psychotherapist and an adjunct professor of clinical psychology at Antioch University in Los Angeles.

  SACCHI GREEN’s stories appear occasionally in Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Women’s Erotica, and enough other steamy anthologies to warm the nights of a long winter.

  MICHAEL M. HERNANDEZ is a queer transbear, author, and public speaker who is in search of pastry nirvana and just happens to pay the bills through the practice of law.

  THEA HUTCHESON burns up the pages with lust, leather, and latex in Best Lesbian Erotica (2001 and 2002), Cthulhu Sex, and Hot Blood 11 as well as on AmatoryInk.com.

  TENNESSEE JONES is an Appalachian-born transman now living in New York City. He is the editor of the punk lit zine Teenage Death Songs. His first collection of short stories, Deliver Me from Nowhere, was published by Soft Skull Press in March 2005.